


lay me gently in the cold dark earth

by TheAndromedaRecord



Series: Avatar!Tim [1]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Body Horror, Buried!Tim, Fade to Black, First Kiss, M/M, Major Character Undeath, Making Out, canon-typical lonely, implied/referenced suicidal ideation, lonely martin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-31
Updated: 2019-12-31
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:08:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22042333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheAndromedaRecord/pseuds/TheAndromedaRecord
Summary: Tim dies, and he can finally rest. There's nothing more restful than the arms of Martin Blackwood, and Tim's new patron doesn't begrudge him this.His anger is gone, replaced with roses and soil
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Tim Stoker
Series: Avatar!Tim [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1731190
Comments: 42
Kudos: 175





	lay me gently in the cold dark earth

**Author's Note:**

> this was gonna be short but. 4k later and here we are

Tim wanted it to stop.

Pulling the trigger wasn’t suicide, not really—it was sacrifice. And if the sacrifice just happened to bring him what he wanted, well, all the better. What he wanted was a rest. A respite from the hell his life had become ever since he’d lost his brother. He was lucky to get a chance to rest in a way that saved people and hurt the circus.

It was not suicide. It was sacrifice.

He did not die quickly. His death was slow and crushing, with the rubble weighing closer and closer on his chest, sharp masonry cutting into his crushed body. The pain was so endless that it barely registered anymore. He could lose himself in that choking river of agony, the shuddering pain that thrummed from every shattered bone. He couldn’t move, of course. He couldn’t do anything but die, and there was peace in that. He could give up trying to struggle and escape, because there was no need to, not anymore. The rubble blocked him from prying eyes. 

He closed his own as the cloying scent of roses clogged his throat and blocked his breath. Tim Stoker died, and he was at rest. 

They buried Tim next to Gertrude, next to all the many burials the Institute had paid for. The earth accepted his body as a lover accepts a flower.

Tim was dead and buried, but he was not yet gone. 

Martin left roses on his grave, and Tim breathed them in. He wanted them there in his rest, so they crawled their way into the soil and stabbed into his ribs, knotting through his freshly mended bones. The dirt was salty with the tears Martin shed. Tim could feel the vibration of his footsteps.

Tim didn’t need to fear. He didn’t need to feel that hollow fire—his chest was full of dirt and roses now. The earth embraced him, inside and out, and the roses soothed his anger. The things that had made him so angry seemed so small next to the endless bulk of the Buried. 

Eventually, Tim wanted to leave. It wasn’t that his grave was uncomfortable—its embrace was the only truly comforting thing he’d ever felt. But exercise had always relaxed him. The Buried let him go willingly, opened up the grave and let him climb out, trusting he would return. He didn’t leave the earth—it still filled his ribcage. He liked it there. It felt nice to finally be full. 

Rose petals fell from his body as he stood in that empty graveyard. He could still breathe, but he didn’t want to. The air was dizzying, and he didn’t want to feel empty again. 

He stretched out his arms and took a good look at his body. Vines and flowers knit through his skin, poking through the suit they’d buried him in. There was cotton in his mouth. He spit it out. It wasn’t that it was suffocating. The Institute had put it there, and he was tired of it.

He could feel the gaze of the Eye on the back of his neck. He no longer belonged to it, though, and he knew it couldn’t see him in his rest.

He never had to follow its orders again. Never had to record another statement or do any more follow up. No more research. No more ghosts. Just rest in the thing that had generously claimed him. God, he was tired. He needed some exercise so he could sleep.

First, though, to get out of this suit. He didn’t know how long it had been since his death. Maybe his flat hadn’t been cleared out yet. 

Unfortunately, it was very far away, and he didn’t have any money for the Tube. As if hearing his thoughts, the ground hummed beneath him, and Tim remembered that statement about the subway. The domain of the Buried was his domain now.

Tim wondered idly if he was an Avatar now. Before his death, the thought would have horrified him. Enraged him. He had no room for rage anymore. The soil choked his anger. What a sweet thing it would be, to be a creature of endless rest?

He plucked a flower from his arm and buried his nose in it. It was sweet and beautiful, and a part of him. He felt a pang of guilt—Martin wasn’t making enough to buy this kind of arrangement.

He started walking for the nearest station. Once he left the graveyard, he drew quite a few odd looks. He must be quite the sight, he supposed. A tall, handsome man in a dirty suit covered in soil and flowers walking through the streets of London. He made it onto the Underground with no problem—no one decided to stop him. He just got on a train, and was at his stop, which was an hour away, in minutes. 

He thanked the tunnel walls in his mind, not his voice—his mouth was full of soil. They sang back to him. A reassurance. 

His flat was totally untouched. He didn’t know how long he’d been dead, and he didn’t really care. Time seemed suddenly irrelevant. Why count the hours while you were sleeping? His old habit of wearing a watch suddenly seemed very silly. 

He changed into a green shirt and his jogging trousers. He debated taking a shower, but the thought of scrubbing away all that dirt unsettled him. It felt like armor, or a warm blanket. 

He wondered if he should move back in. It was the automatic instinct—he was a person, and he needed a home. But none of the things in his flat seemed relevant anymore. His grave was where he belonged. All he needed was the dirt in his lungs and the roses in his bones. The place was far too big, anyway. What did people even want with flats that big?

His thoughts were alien, he knew. He wasn’t like this before. He was just too tired to protest. The dull, comforting choke was so much better than the wailing anger under a ceaseless watcher.

His thoughts turned back to the Institute. If he went back there, it would be his choice. He didn’t have to set foot in that accursed place ever again. He could leave his asshole bosses behind. He didn’t have to see any of them again. He could move on.

But then he remembered the saltwater that had seeped into the dirt as Martin wept over his grave, and he quietly cursed to himself. Martin at least deserved to know that he was at rest. Although Tim wouldn’t say no to a few more bouquets—stems felt so much better than bones. 

He could see through his skin now in the full-length mirror. His muscle, too, was translucent, so he could see all the vines and dirt that inhabited his body. The Buried had mended his shattered bones with gold. He was a patchwork thing, but it wasn’t unnatural, like the stranger. It was like he’d been grown. Like he’d allowed flowers to grow from his corpse. It was a beautiful thing, the kind of thing Martin might put in his poetry as a metaphor. 

He took the Underground to Martin’s flat. The Underground was nice—he could move around while still feeling the Buried’s embrace. It did scare him still. It scared him that he might never see the sky again, might never move again. He didn’t want to totally submit to it just yet. But it still let him move, and there were far worse patrons to have. 

Martin’s flat was on the fourth floor, which Tim didn’t like. Hopefully it would be a small place. He suddenly felt awkward as he stood on the doorstep. How would Martin respond? Would he assume Tim was something wrong, created by the Stranger? Was he even home yet?

His last question was answered as Martin came trudging wearily up the stairs. 

He tried to say Martin’s name, but he had no breath and his airways were stuffed with dirt. Martin saw him and froze, his round face a picture of shock. He was dressed oddly—he’d exchanged his retro t-shirts and jumpers for a cream sweater vest and khakis. He was desaturated, somehow, and far too clean. 

“T-Tim?” Martin squeaked. He quickly pulled out and brandished a pocketknife. “N-no, you’re one of them, aren’t you. Don’t do that. Stop pretending to be him.”

Tim coughed up all the soil, spattering it onto the floor as Martin watched in horror. It hurt. The air scraped against his throat. 

“I got your flowers,” he said, his voice raspy. “Really, you had to wait until I was dead to be romantic?”

Martin gave a tiny, hysterical giggle, but didn’t lower the knife. 

“Martin,” Tim took a step forward. “It’s okay. I’m not with the Stranger. Or the Eye, for that matter.”

“You’re dead. How are you here?”

“You buried me. And the Buried accepted me.”

Martin took a deep, shuddering breath and ran his free hand through his hair. Had he bleached it? It seemed lighter, but it still looked just as soft. The same hair that Tim always sought any excuse to touch.

“It’s okay, Martin,” Tim said softly. “I’m not alive, or anything. But I’m here. I didn’t want you to worry. I wanted to tell you I’m at rest.”

“Tim,” Martin breathed. “Are you…” He dropped the knife with a clatter, and his breath escaped him in a choked sob. “I thought you were gone.”

Tim took a step closer, then another. Martin didn’t flinch or back away.

“I’m here,” Tim said. “I’m not the same, I think. I think I’m better now.”

Martin reached out with a trembling hand to touch a rose that bloomed from Tim’s ear. 

“You’re with the Buried now,” he stated. 

Tim nodded. “It let me keep your flowers.”

“These are mine?” Martin’s voice was hushed. 

“Do you want to talk in your flat?”

“Y-yeah. Yeah, that sounds fine.”

Martin fumbled to get the door open. Tim would have complained about it, before, but he was at rest, and impatience seemed alien. 

“W-what happened?” Martin asked once he had Tim sat down on the couch. 

His flat was so minimalist and uncluttered. Not what Tim had expected of Martin. Now that he was paying attention, he felt the fog of the Lonely curdle in the corners. He didn’t like the Lonely much. It didn’t want to touch him—it was hard to feel Lonely when Martin’s flowers and the Buried’s soil embraced him to the bone. 

“I died,” Tim replied simply. 

“And then you came back.”

“No, no, I don’t think so. Death is just eternal rest, and that’s what the Buried gave me.”

“I’m glad,” Martin said softly. “You were so angry. It hurt. It hurt a lot.”

Martin’s eyes were fixed on his hands. He was so still. Like the dead, but without the comfort of a grave. Tim laid a hand on Martin’s shoulder, and Martin gasped. Tim made sure his lips were full of rose.

“Martin,” Tim said. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?” There were tears in Martin’s eyes. “Tim, it’s not your fault that Jon was stalking you and what happened to your brother, and it’s not your fault he’s—he’s—it’s not your fault what happened to Jon, and the Unknowing, and Elias, I should have got to him earlier, and—“

He was both anxious and lonely, and Tim wanted to cast him into the Buried to feel that wonderful embrace. He wouldn’t do that to Martin, though, not without his consent, so he settled for the next best thing.

Martin cut off his ramble with a soft gasp as Tim gripped him in a tight embrace.

“It’s fine,” he murmured into the horrible sweater vest. “I don’t care about what happened anymore, Martin. I don’t care about what Jon did. I just care about you.”

“Me?” Martin hiccuped. “Why?”

Tim grasped Martin even tighter, curling his fingers into knit fabric.

“You deserve better than the Lonely. I can show you something better, if you like. Somewhere you’ll always feel loved and held.”

Martin shook his head. “I-I can’t, Tim. I have to protect everyone.”

Where Tim’s despair had run hot, Martin’s ran cold. Tim could feel it emanating from him in waves, and suddenly that fire of hate smoldered up from the dirt. The Lonely and the Lukases had no right to take Martin like this. They had no right to take someone lonely and self-sacrificing and manipulate them.

“You’re the best of us, Martin, you know that?” Tim told him. “You always were.” 

“This isn’t real,” Martin mumbled. “This is a dream, and I’ll wake up tomorrow and be alone again.”

Tim pinched Martin lightly on the arm, producing a surprised little squeak. 

“I’m real,” he breathed. “I’m real. I’m here for you, Martin.”

Martin finally broke, crying in earnest.

“You’re all that’s left,” he sobbed. “Mom’s dead, and Jon’s not coming back, and Daisy’s dead, and the rest just…”

The roses in Tim’s stomach twisted. Jon wasn’t coming back, and Tim found that he only cared for Martin’s sake. His fights with Jon seemed so far away. 

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m here.”

Martin pulled out of the hug, his eyes puffy and scanning Tim’s face. He put a hand on Tim’s cheek. His skin was soft and starting to warm up, and Tim suddenly wanted Martin on top of him, embracing him, letting him feel the joy of the Buried in a way not even the soil could grant.

“Can I kiss you?” Martin asked softly.

Tim felt the roses bloom even wider, and could only nod mutely. 

Martin kissed him, and Tim’s breath left his lungs. His lips were just as soft as Tim had imagined. Tim gripped Martin’s hair—as soft as he remembered—and pulled Martin even closer, the soft kiss turned passionate as Tim’s teeth tugged at Martin’s lower lip. His breath didn’t come back, and he didn’t want it to. His breath had been a haggard thing, a tearing thing, and he was glad it was gone. 

Tim fell backward, lying on his back on the couch, and their lips broke apart.

“That okay?” Martin asked, and Tim grinned at his breathlessness. 

“Yeah,” Tim told him. “More than okay.”

Martin swallowed nervously. “It’s just—well, you’re Tim Stoker, and I don’t see why you’d want—sorry, I shouldn’t have pushed, I mean you’re dead, so that’s probably a lot to deal with, and—mmf!“

Tim cut him off by smashing their lips together in a clumsy mass of tongue and teeth. He pulled back, then kissed Martin again, soft and gentle this time, his heart suddenly fluttering again as Martin’s lips parted to let in Tim’s tongue.

“I want you,” Tim murmured when they finally parted. Martin was flushed and panting, his hair sticking up adorably. There were smudges of dirt on his pale cheeks, and Tim hoped they wouldn’t be the only mark he’d leave. “Always did, I think, but I was angry. Angry that you were stronger than I was.”

Martin laughed. “Me? The strong one?”

Tim kissed him again. “Takes a strong soul to make tea as the apocalypse approaches.”

He planted a kiss to Martin’s jaw, smiling as Martin let out a little whine. Tim nibbled his way down Martin’s neck, and Martin clutched at his shoulders. One of Martin’s hands found a stem growing from Tim’s neck, and he shivered. His hands were careful, timid, but Tim could feel the desperation in every movement.

“Do you, ah,” Martin gasped, “want to be on-on top? I know I’m not the smallest, and I want you to br-breathe.”

“Haven’t had to breathe since I died,” Tim murmured into Martin’s skin. His pulse was so fast, like that of a frightened rabbit. It made Tim a bit sad that Martin was still tethered to the living like this. 

One of Tim’s roses curled around Martin’s fingers.

“How many of these are there?”

“All over, I think,” Tim replied. “Haven’t really looked.”

One of Martin’s hands found its way to the crook of Tim’s back. “Do you…can I see?”

Tim smiled into Martin’s neck. “Are you asking me to get naked, Martin Blackwood?”

He felt the heat that coursed through Martin’s skin. He wondered if all of Martin’s skin went red when he blushed. 

“Only, only if you want to. I’m just—curious, I guess. And they are my roses.” He chuckled weakly.

“Okay, but let’s go to the bedroom.”

Tim actually squeaked in surprise as Martin lifted him up. He left behind a dusting of dirt on the sofa. The dirt was starting to feel less and less essential to his connection to the Buried—it was the roses that really choked him. He’d have to actually shower at some point to get them some water.

“What do you want, Tim?” Martin asked as he carried Tim like a bride to the bedroom.

Tim placed a finger to Martin’s lips. It left a stain of soil behind. 

“I know what you’re doing, Martin,” he said. “Trying to keep people from thinking about what you want. Trying to keep yourself from thinking about what you want.”

Martin winced as he set Tim down on the bed and stood back awkwardly as Tim started taking off his shirt. 

“That’s not what I’m doing. I…”

He trailed off as Tim revealed his chest. 

“Wow,” Martin breathed. 

Tim waggled his eyebrows. “Haven’t lost my touch?”  
Martin went even redder. “I just meant…you’re beautiful.”

Tim’s body had always been a point of pride for him—not in a shallow way, he just did enough physical activity to have an intimate connection with his physical form. And that form had been totally changed into something new. Something he hadn’t really earned.

But Martin was right. It was beautiful. 

Martin pressed a kiss to a rose that curled over Tim’s forehead, and he gasped involuntarily. 

“Why are you wearing that sweater vest, Martin?” Tim asked.

“Why am I wearing clothes, or why am I wearing these clothes?”

“Both, I guess. I liked your retro tees.”

Martin tugged at the bottom of the sweater vest as if he’d just noticed it. “Oh. Well, me too. It’s just—well, dress code wasn’t really enforced at the Archives, but now that I’m, you know, assistant to the head of the Institute.”

Tim whipped his head around. “What? You’re Elias’s assistant?”

“No.” Martin sighed and sat down on the edge of the bed next to Tim. “A lot’s happened, Tim.”

“So tell me.” Tim stopped to consider. “No, actually, just tell me the stuff that matters to you.”

“Well, I got Elias arrested, for one.”

Tim grabbed both sides of Martin’s face and kissed him so hard they both collapsed back onto the bed. He straddled Martin’s waist and just kept planting kisses all over Martin’s face, biting at his lip, running his hands down Martin’s sides. Martin shivered under his ministrations, making noises that were frankly just embarassing.

“Martin, you beautiful genius!”

Martin looked away, blushing. “Well, now Peter Lukas is the boss, and he’s trying to get me to isolate myself.”

“That’s…less ideal.”

Martin shrugged. “He’s not a bad boss. Doesn’t talk to me much. Probably wouldn’t even notice if I went back to t-shirts and jeans. But…this feels better, now, somehow. I put on my clothes, the ones I like, and…I feel like an imposter.”

“And Jon?” Tim asked softly

Martin winced. “In a coma. He’s…like you, I guess. Doesn’t breathe, heart doesn’t beat. But he’s still dreaming.”

Tim stroked Martin’s hair. Martin’s eyelids fluttered.

“I’m sorry, Martin.”

“My mum’s dead. And he’s gone, and Lukas…it just felt easier to cut myself off, you know? Like it was fine to be lonely. And then…I saw you standing outside my apartment.” Martin gave a little, helpless laugh. “Guess I’m not as strong as you thought. All it takes is one or two disasters and my life starts spiraling.”

“Your mum died, Martin. And two of your closest friends. That would knock anyone off course.” 

“Are you going to stay?” Martin asked softly. “I understand if you want to go back to your grave. I don’t want to take you from your rest, I just…I want to have some warning if I lose you again.”

“I think I’m going to be around,” Tim said. “Yeah. Yeah, I think I’d like to stay. Here, with you…you’d make a great Avatar of the Buried, Martin.” He snuggled into Martin’s chest, kissing the underside of his chin. “You could join it, you know. Leave all the worries behind. You could always be held by something who loves you.”

“I-I don’t think I can do that.”

“Shame,” Tim murmured. 

“I’m sorry, Tim. For everything.”

“I’m sorry too.”

Martin looked down and raised an eyebrow. “What’s gotten into you. You never apologize.”

“I was proud, Martin. Too proud. I thought I wasn’t safe if I admitted I’d done anything wrong.” The soil in his chest hummed. “But now I’m always safe.”

He would have felt safe even without the Buried, ensconced here in Martin’s arms. 

“I don’t like the new clothes,” Tim remarked. “Wanna take them off?”

“Yes, but you’ll have to get off me, you clod.” Martin blanched. “Sorry, was that insensitive? Because, you know, clod, it’s a dirt thing—“

Tim just laughed and rolled off of Martin, who stood up and began to strip a little self-consciously. Tim propped himself up on one elbow and watched. He’d always idly fantasized about what Martin would look like naked, and his predictions were right—he was beautiful, and his whole body turned red when he blushed, and his freckles were scattered like stars across the whole of his skin. 

Tim spent the night buried under Martin, inhaling the smell of roses. 

He tucked a rose petal into Martin’s hair and left smudges of dirt on his hips. It was no supernatural mark, any more than the purple bruises along Martin’s collarbone. It was Tim’s mark, a mark far more tangible than the letters etched onto his headstone. 

_Rest in peace,_ he mouthed into Martin’s shoulder as Martin cried his name.

When he woke, he woke in Martin’s warm embrace, an embrace even the earth couldn’t compete with. They’d showered before falling asleep, and the dirt was gone, but the flowers bloomed even more wildly than before.

“Hey,” Martin said softly. “You’re awake.”

Tim wrapped himself even tighter in Martin’s arms. “I’m awake.”

“You know,” Martin mused, “I think I’ll wear my Star Wars t-shirt today.”

Tim grinned and ran a hand down Martin’s back. “I think that’s an excellent idea.”

**Author's Note:**

> catch me on tumblr at ceaselesslywatched


End file.
